What makes a Monster?
by iPhone iNsomniac
Summary: Predators are born. Ethan is a ghoul, and understands this well. Yet from a young age he has seen the horrible things both humans and other ghouls are capable of, that he could be capable of as well. Surviving in a Los Angeles changed by a worldwide population boom and the following decline, along with predators both ghoul and human, would be easier as a monster. His choice is...?


" _…and with those blood-stained lips in perpetual red, I hold my breath to keep from moving, hold my breath till I'm dead,_ " I whisper along with the song, doing just that as the girl in her late teens passes by. After all, she is not my target tonight, or hopefully, any other night, and so there is no reason to tempt myself when I am this on-edge, both from hunger and the excitement of the hunt. As the man who has followed her down this alley passes by, knife in one hand and a rag that reeks of chemicals, chloroform or some such, to my sensitive nose when I breathe in to catch his scent, I whisper another fitting verse as I step out to follow

" _…cause We're Rollin' with the Dead now._ "

Reaching up, I paused my music (Nightcore Forever!) and slide my headphones down to rest around my neck. While I may love having a soundtrack for just about anything I do, I can't have any of my senses at less than their best, just in case, while I'm on a hunt. After all, it is life or death, and I want to keep my unbroken streak of 'life', thank you very much. And as Los Angeles _is_ the most populous city in California, there are sure to be other predators out tonight. Wether they are other ghouls, who may attack me for being on claimed territory or for some other reason, or humans who have decided they would rather be the predator than the prey, I need to stay sharp. I haven't lasted this long on my own by being careless, and anyone can be a threat given the right motivation and opportunity.

But enough internal monologuing, he's making his move. His movements show obvious experience, as I expected, when he wraps the arm holding the knife around the girl's body while simultaneously clapping the rag across her mouth and nose, dragging her into a secluded, boxed-in area despite her startled struggles and muffled screams. It isn't long before her struggles weaken, and stop completely. As the man _(David Valencia, convicted sex offender, got off a rape and murder charge because the prosecution made a mistake and the defense didn't, not an innocent, you have to anyways, he's the monster, you're just the predator)_ drops her to the ground and unzips his pants, I smile a grim smile. There is no one else around, and the girl won't see anything, so rather than risk a lucky shot from his knife (and because it's been a while, to be honest), I release my kagune.

The skin around the base of my spine bulges and rips open with a flash of pain and relief, as my bikaku unfurls into the air and takes form for the first time in weeks. The liquid muscle bubbles up and takes shape, curling up and over my head like the tail of a scorpion as I crouch and brace myself against the ground. I take a moment to aim at the man now bending down over the limp body of his would-be victim, and call clearly, in a (fake) pleasant voice, "Excuse me."

Even as the man shoots to his feet, my bikaku shoots forward, years of experience allowing me to carefully control the force so that when the end of my extended kagune strikes him in the throat, rather than punching through as it would at full strength, it lifts him off his feet and slams him into a nearby wall. However, that alone is enough, because my entire bikaku has a two lines of blade-like spikes running down its length and capping it, with the larger ones on the bottom when straightened. Of course, when I have it curled over my head as I am want to do, the larger ones are on top, much like the final blade of hardened cells that tips it and is currently impaled in Mr. Valencia's throat, blocking his airways and keeping him silent while not letting out too much blood as he dies. He struggles to pull it out as I walk towards him, fearful and desperate _(just like she was, as you dragged her back here to rape, how does it feel to be the helpless one now?)_ , unarmed since he dropped the knife when I struck.

I watch carefully as he dies, for regardless of his deeds, it is still a life I have taken. I look him in the eyes as the light in them fades, and I know that the last sight on this earth will be my mask: a black angel's wing, centered over my left eye on a white background, and like a reversed copy, the right side is pitch black, with a pure white wing centered over the eye, both of which display my activated kakugan. Red on black gaze into brown on white until the latter is no longer seeing anything. Only then do I sigh, and retract my kagune, letting the body slump to the ground as I walk back to the girl. Pulling out her wallet (and yes, I'm wearing gloves. I always cover everything possible while I hunt, less chance of identification through any means that way), I divest her of her cash before I take my meal and go. With the chemical soaked rag beside her, her clothes still on, and her money gone, a simple theft will hopefully be the assumption, and even if its not, I was careful enough to avoid leaving traces.

Luckily, I make it home without incident, and I enter through my basement's hidden door from two streets over via a tunnel that really isn't needed anymore, but would be too costly to remove (Ergo, why I chose this house. Thank goodness 'Aunt Vicky' left me all of her jewelry collection to pawn… and the watch and men's accessories from 'Uncle Herman'… as well as that nice nest egg of cash they kept saved up…). Dropping the body on the table I use for cutting them up, I pull of the black hoodie I wore, as well as my mask, which I carefully set aside. Here in the safety of my house, I release my kakugan, and walk over to the sink as I remove my gloves, comfortable black cloth with kevlar reinforcing the knuckles and back of my hands. After washing my hands and face, I look up at the mirror.

Eyes of blue _(blue, with little lighter bits mixed in like the foam on the waves as they hit the beach… just like your father's…)_ in a face caught between mischievous and kind ( _or at least, hers was. Mine isn't always real. But then again, hers might have been fake sometimes as well. Maybe I just don't to admit it)_ under a silky smooth mess of brown hair ( _How is it always so thick? I know you didn't get that from either of us, and really, can't you fix it at least a bit, you silly thing?)_ looked back at me. A normal (human) person at first glance… until one noticed the mask visible over his right shoulder. Or the corpse on the left.

Both undeniable proof that despite whatever a first look may say, this person is not normal.

My name is Ethan Vance.

Regardless of either my appearance or actions, I _am_ a **ghoul**. I _am_ a **predator**. But…

Am I a **monster**?

 **So Tokyo Ghoul. America version. Thought about making it a oneshot, maybe not. Not sure, but hey, I needed something new since something bad in real life interrupted my other stories, just when I was starting off. So I am alive, all that. Sorry about leaving you guys hanging on those, and I will get to work on them, either more chapters or slight changes, THEN new chapters. Thanks for reading, iPiN**


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